The Situation at Hand
by Idan
Summary: Tag to Seeing Red, 1x7. Lisbon meditates on one of her favorite things about Jane.
**Disclaimer** : None of this belongs to me or adds to my net worth.

 **Author's Note** : In rewatching Seeing Red, I was struck by Lisbon's reaction when Jane reaches for the victim's daughter's hand. I'd never noticed it before, but it seemed significant. Then this story got all serious on me. I guess I just can't help trying to fix things!

* * *

His hands were not the first thing people noticed about Patrick Jane. It was usually his dazzling smile, his golden curls, or his bright blue-green eyes, or maybe his mesmerizing voice. Women might glance at the wedding ring after a moment, but that wasn't what initially caught their eye. Most men never even noticed his hands, too preoccupied with what was coming out of his mouth.

Lisbon couldn't recall when she'd first noticed them. As she thought back, he'd mostly kept them tucked away when they'd met, except to shake hands with her. His habit of walking around with his hands in his pockets had puzzled her a little until she realized why: his hands were the most expressive part of him.

His control of his expression, voice, and body language was near perfect, but those hands...now that she knew how to look, she could read volumes from them. He didn't make sandwiches or tea in strangers' houses because he was hungry; he wanted to keep his hands busy. It also kept people off balance, but he had plenty of other ways to do that. Standing in their personal space, for instance. Goodness knew he was in hers often enough.

He was constantly fiddling with coins or whatever came to hand around the office. It was as if keeping his hands in motion was his way of silencing them.

She tried not to be obvious about watching them; she didn't want to tip him off. But sometimes she couldn't help herself.

Like now.

As they sat in the bullpen with Rosemary Tennant's daughter, Lisbon glanced at Jane's hands, wondering if he was seeing something she wasn't. When he moved to touch the tips of his fingers to Clara's hand, she realized that, sure enough, he knew something he wasn't telling her. Her lips tugged into a frown, but she quickly smoothed it out and focused on Clara again.

Presented with plausible suspects, Jeremy the user boyfriend and Travis the runaway son, Lisbon forgot about whatever was going on in Jane's head and focused on police work. But when those leads didn't pan out, she somehow found herself at a séance, of all things, hoping this wasn't just Jane trying to get one over on Kristina Frye. The list of ways this could go wrong was as long as the lecture she'd get from Minelli if it didn't work.

When Frye asked everyone to hold hands with their neighbors, Lisbon was a little surprised that Jane held his out to her. But then, he needed to sell this to the killer, so that could explain it. He wasn't big on casual touch normally.

His hand was so much larger than hers, and his grip was warm and firm. How long had it been since a man had held her hand? God, had Greg been the last one?

She'd forgotten how it felt to have a hand wrapped around hers, how intimate it was to have another pulse beat against her skin. Jane's fingers were long and graceful, and he held her hand tightly enough to convey comfort with the action. It was completely different from the sensation of her other hand holding Van Pelt's. The rookie's hand was clammy and occasionally twitched, betraying her discomfort at the situation.

Jane's hand was steady. It felt strong and confident, just like he always pretended to be. If he had doubts about this plan, his hand didn't know about them.

With effort, Lisbon focused on Frye's voice. She was not going to think about Jane's hand anymore. It was too easy to go from the warmth of his skin to wondering what the rest of him felt like. She'd seen his forearms when he rolled up his sleeves, but never his upper arms. He had nice broad shoulders, though.

Argh. She needed a date. Thinking about her consultant like this would only get her in trouble.

When Jane pulled away to go after Clara, it took Lisbon a few seconds to realize she needed to let go. Embarrassed, she let her hand fall to her lap, hoping he hadn't noticed. Everyone had been focused on Clara running from the room, so her lapse had likely escaped attention.

Damn it. She needed a date.

mmm

That evening, she was working on her report, trying to find a word for séance that didn't imply she'd lost her mind and broken out the Ouija board, when Frye poked her head into her office. "Agent Lisbon. Do you have a moment?"

"Come in." She'd helped them crack the case, after all. The least Lisbon could do was be polite.

Frye came close to the desk but didn't sit. "I...have a message for you."

Lisbon stifled a groan. She believed in the afterlife, but not in psychics. "Ms. Frye, no offense, but I don't have any questions for my loved ones who've passed on."

Frye smiled. "No. And they have none for you. Only affection. But my message is from someone you never met in life."

"Oh?"

"Earlier tonight, I spoke with Angela Jane."

Lisbon couldn't have been more shocked if Frye had pulled out a gun and shot her. She swallowed, unable to draw enough breath to speak.

"She wants to thank you. She's been very worried about her husband. While she's glad he's gone straight, as she put it, she isn't wild about his dangerous occupation. Or his quest for revenge."

Lisbon felt oddly like she was eavesdropping on something private. "Ms. Frye—"

"Hear me out. Please."

Apparently the only way to end this was to let her finish. It wasn't real, Lisbon assured herself. Why should Jane's wife want to talk to her? "Okay."

Frye nodded. "She says: he needs a friend. Only a friend."

Lisbon fought to keep a blush from taking over her face. What the hell? Were dead souls jealous?

It's not real, Lisbon reminded herself. Maybe Frye had designs on Jane? That was far more likely than Angela Jane reading Lisbon's mind and warning her off her husband. "Then she has nothing to worry about," she said firmly.

"Good. Thank you for allowing me to deliver her message. I think she'll rest easier now."

"Why me? Why not speak to Jane?" Lisbon wondered.

"Oh, she did." Frye smiled. "Good night, Agent Lisbon."

Crap, Lisbon thought as her office door closed behind the psychic. Jane had gotten a message from his dead wife? Even if he didn't believe, that had to be unsettling. She suddenly was worried about him.

Jane's couch was empty, and the rest of the team had left. Lisbon frowned, wondering if he'd gone home. She looked out the window and didn't see his car, but she couldn't see much of the lot from here.

She did a quick tour of his usual hangouts, then headed down to the parking lot. The Citroen was still there, so he couldn't have gone far. She pulled out her phone and texted him: _Where are you?_

There was no reply. On her way back in, she asked the guard, "Seen Jane tonight?"

"No. He hasn't gone in or out since I've been here," he replied.

Dammit. Where was he? She was used to him being the center of attention, not hiding. Even his naps were in public, for heaven's sake.

She went back to her office for lack of a better plan—and there he was, lying on her couch with his back turned to her. She paused a moment before coming in and closing the door, torn between relief and annoyance, and walked softly over to the couch.

He was either asleep or doing a great job of pretending. His collar was damp, which puzzled her. Had he washed his face? Why? Had he been...crying?

The thought took her breath away. What in God's name could Kristina Frye have said to make Patrick Jane cry?

One thing was for sure: she'd never find out from him. All she could do was be his friend.

"It's difficult to sleep with you staring at me, Lisbon," he said without opening his eyes. His voice was a little hoarse, but that could be because he'd actually been asleep.

"Sorry," she said.

He rolled over on his back and blinked at her. "And here I was expecting a sarcastic remark about my ability to sleep with several people staring at me on a regular basis. What's wrong?"

"Wrong? Nothing. Just not used to finding men sleeping on my couch," she replied, going over to her desk.

"Men? Who are these men? I'm very territorial about my napping spots, I warn you." He sat up, yawning and stretching. She tried not to stare, pretending to look at the file on her desk.

"Relax. No one else would dare nap in my office." Would it help him to talk about it? Probably not. He probably just needed to tease her for a little while. "You don't need to worry my couch is cheating on you."

"Good. I require monogamy from all my couches," he replied, looking a little less tired. His hands were lying limply in his lap, though, so she knew he wasn't feeling himself.

"That seems hypocritical, since you're a couch polygamist," she noted.

He grinned. It looked almost normal. "Guilty as charged. Though I think I'm really just a bigamist. I'm faithful to both my napping couches. Despite the fact that this one has definitely seen better days."

"Hey. Don't diss my couch," she warned. "Do you know how hard I had to fight to get it?"

"You should have a better couch. I could hypnotize Minelli," he suggested cheerfully.

"Don't you dare."

"I don't see why I should suffer for your martyr complex, Lisbon. There's no virtue in suffering, you know. Despite what your religion tells you."

"I'm not going to engage in a theological debate over my couch. It's mine, so it stays. Period." She glared at him.

He seemed delighted. What was with the man, she wondered for the umpteenth time. He honestly seemed to enjoy making her angry.

Slapping his knees, he got to his feet. "I'll make us a pot of tea," he said, then left.

Lisbon tried to go back to her paperwork, but she was still worried. She didn't really need to work late, but she didn't want to leave him alone until she was sure he was okay.

After a few minutes, Jane returned with his tea tray. Lisbon decided to join him on the couch, taking the steaming mug he handed her.

"You might as well tell me, you know," he remarked, sipping from his cup.

"Tell you what?"

"What's upset you."

"I'm not upset."

"High voice. Really, Lisbon, I feel I should be coaching you on becoming a better liar."

"Unlike you, I don't see being a good liar as a good thing," she retorted.

"A certain amount of lying is necessary in life. You'll find things easier if you learn to do it well."

"Easier is not always better."

"True. But you'll live longer with less stress." He paused. "Kristina Frye stopped by earlier."

"I know. She stopped in to stay hi." Since that wasn't a lie, she hoped he'd be satisfied with it.

"Did she?" Jane's voice sounded only mildly interested, but his cup rattled a bit in its saucer.

"I think she's sweet on you." He wasn't the only one who could deflect, she thought.

Jane huffed out a bitter chuckle. "She just knows a fellow fraud when she meets one. She's looking to learn new tricks."

"You're not a fraud, Jane."

"Lisbon. Of course I am. I con people all the time."

"To catch criminals, as part of your job. That doesn't make you a fraud."

"Despite the reams of complaints attesting otherwise?"

Lisbon frowned, searching for the right words. "You play a fraud to do your job. But that's not who you are. On your own time, you're a good man, Jane."

His mouth twisted into an ugly line. "Too little, too late."

"Not to me," she protested.

"No," he said after a moment. "Not yet, anyway."

They were silent for a moment. Then Lisbon said, "I know you know that whatever Ms. Frye had to say, it wasn't real."

"Yes. It says more about her than anything else," he agreed. "It could be the thing you most want to hear or the thing you're most afraid of hearing, depending on what she's trying to achieve."

Well, that put an interesting spin on what she'd said to her, Lisbon thought. Did Frye think she was most afraid of hearing she could only ever be Jane's friend? If so, she was gravely mistaken.

"What did she say to you?" Jane asked.

"Me? Nothing important."

"That can't be true, or it wouldn't be bothering you," he replied. "Did she deliver a message from someone?"

"Yes. Someone I didn't expect."

"Hm. I guess we have to give her points for not choosing either of your parents," he said. "Whatever it was, it's nonsense, Lisbon. Not worth dwelling on. Don't waste another moment on it."

"I won't if you won't," she said.

"Ah. Worked that out, did you? Nicely done, Lisbon."

"Hey, I may not be a mentalist, but I am a pretty good detective."

"Yes, you are." He paused, then set his teacup on the table and leaned forward, hands clasped and elbows on his knees. "Problem is, she was right about the question, if not the answer. It's...never really been out of my mind, but I usually don't let it rise to the top anymore. I...can't."

Lisbon had read the crime scene reports for his family's case more than once, so she could imagine what horrors came to him when he thought about it. "I...there are things we can't know, of course. And I know you've seen the same files I have. But if it's a question I can shed any light on, and if you think it would help, I'll try."

Jane sucked in a sharp breath. His fingers tightened on each other, going white. "My daughter..." He broke off, swallowing hard. He swallowed a couple more times, then whispered, "Did she wake up?"

Lisbon thought back to the autopsy report. She could see why he would be uncertain; there was no way he could process that except through a cloud of horror, grief, and rage. And he was far from an expert in forensics. "My impression was that she didn't. There was no sign of a struggle, and it looked like the throat was, uh, first."

She stopped, unsure whether he wanted her to go into detail. His breathing was loud and uneven, and she was worried he was going to hurt his fingers if he didn't loosen his grip. She was relieved when he unclasped his hands to gesture for her to continue.

"The coroner thought the other wounds were post mortem because they didn't bleed much. SacPD thought he took care of her first and had to be quiet so he wouldn't wake her mother, um, prematurely." She shied away from that image. There was no denying Angela Jane's death had been gruesome, painful, and terrifying. Nor would she tell him the other theory: that Red John hadn't enjoyed killing little Charlotte, but had done it as a kind of chore, solely to punish Jane, before moving on to the murder he derived pleasure and/or satisfaction from.

Jane rubbed a hand across his face, breathing deeply, obviously trying not to cry. She hadn't wanted to hug anyone this badly since the last time her dad had beat up Stan, but, just like her stubborn, proud brother, Jane would never allow it. So she sipped her tea and sat quietly, keeping him company without intruding into his inner hell. When she finished it, she set her mug on the table, deciding he didn't want to hear anymore. "So you must have really gotten to her for her to sucker punch you like that."

"Yeah," Jane breathed. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and let out a long breath, as if letting something go. Then he looked at her. "You're not lying to me, are you?"

"No. You can't tell?" She was surprised.

"Not...about this. I'm too invested. I might see what I want to see."

"I'm not lying to you, Jane. It's all in the file, which I know you've read." She hoped he wouldn't torture himself by reading it again.

"Yeah. I just...was afraid I wasn't seeing something I didn't want to see."

"Well, now you know. I hope it helps."

"It does." He reached for her hand, gripping it firmly. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." She squeezed his hand.

"Let's get out of here," he suggested, letting go, getting up, and picking up the tea things.

"It's getting late," she agreed, trying not to sound disappointed.

He smiled at her over his shoulder. "You haven't eaten yet, have you?"

"No."

"Good. I'm starving. Thai?"

She wrinkled her nose. "I was hoping for a nice cheeseburger."

"Then you shall have it. On me." He opened the door, picked up the tray, and headed for the break room.

Lisbon went over to shut down her computer, smiling a little. Kristina Frye was full of shit, but she was right about one thing: Jane needed a friend.

It was a good thing he had one, then.


End file.
